


edges

by astarisms



Category: Satan and Me (Webcomic)
Genre: Edgeplay, F/F, Knifeplay, Rare Pairings, Shameless Smut, don't sleep on them, dont sleep on zadkiel's kinky ass either, for four years yall have trusted me with natan, listen, please, today i ask that you trust me to know what's good, you don't realize it until you think about it, zadthea is GOOD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 16:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20763605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: knives are excellent for inflicting pain… or pleasure.





	edges

“Do you trust me?” 

Zadkiel’s breath is warm against her ear, their hair tickling her collarbone, and it takes all she has not to reach out against the bonds keeping her pinned to their bed to  _ touch— _

“You have to answer, dove, or this isn’t going to work.” 

Anthea feels the curve of Zadkiel’s lips on her skin, and her breath hitches. She’s not used to becoming so flustered so easily, considering the things she used to do to pay the bills. 

But she’s never done anything quite like  _ this _ . The whisper of her gauzy lingerie, the rough scratch of the ropes, the silky coolness of the blindfold are all sensations she’s familiar with, but not ever together and not with the addition of—

“ _ Anthea _ ,” Zadkiel singsongs above her, skimming the cold, blunt edge of the knife over her hip. The press of the metal is gone as quickly as it came, as Zadkiel anticipates how Anthea jumps and gasps, “yes.” 

Zadkiel laughs and it’s a low, husky sound that sends a rush of warmth through Anthea and she has to remind herself that she has to stay still. 

“Eager, are we?” they tease, and the mattress shifts with their weight as they move to straddle her waist. Anthea has never known someone to be so soft and so sharp simultaneously, like Zadkiel is in this form, but she finds she likes the  _ curvesinewmuscle _ of their body more than any other she’s ever known. 

Zadkiel catches her beneath the chin with a finger, tilting her head back, and Anthea can’t see but she can hear the rustle of their hair falling as they lean over her, feel it brushing over her as gently as the knife had a moment ago.

“Don’t move, dove. I’d hate to mar that pretty face of yours.” 

Anthea’s breath shudders as the edge of the blade touches her temple, just above where the blindfold’s edge rests, and then trails down the side of her face, featherlight and careful as a lover’s caress but infinitely more dangerous.

It traces the outline of her face, and every second that passes feels like an eternity. Her heart slams against her ribcage, and she feels lightheaded. She doesn’t know if it’s fear or exhilaration or some combination of both, but for all that she doesn’t need to breathe it feels like her lungs have seized in her chest. 

The blade finally lifts from her skin and all the tension that’s built up inside of her fades away. She draws in a shaky breath and Zadkiel laughs again, quieter and throatier this time, as if this is affecting them, too. 

“Do you want to stop?” The words are barely more than a murmur, spoken so close she can feel the whisper of their lips against her own. She wants to strain against the ropes, to close that little bit of distance between them, but she doesn’t.

“No,” she breathes, and though she matches their volume there’s a conviction in that one word that she isn’t sure the origin of. She’s thankful for it all the same; she had agreed to this and she wants to see it through. 

Zadkiel leans away from her, giving her another quiet reminder to be still. Then she feels the knife again, barely there against the center of her forehead. It leaves an icy imprint on her skin, where it makes a straight line down, between her eyebrows, to the tip of her nose. 

It pauses there, the sharp point lingering, before it sweeps down again and settles against the dip in her top lip. Her breath shudders again, and, as if that had been an invitation, the blade follows the curve of her mouth with an agonizing softness. 

Her lips part and the knife stills, and there’s a beat of absolute stillness before it’s abruptly removed from her skin and replaced by something softer, fuller—

Anthea moans, a small little sound that gets caught in her throat, and Zadkiel steals the opportunity to slip their tongue into her mouth. She twitches in her bonds, the urge to reach out and touch them nearly consuming her again, but the kiss is already over and both of them are struggling to catch their breath.

“My, my, little succubus,” Zadkiel says after a minute, with not nearly as much composure as they’d possessed before, “you really are quite tempting.” 

Anthea huffs a laugh, unable to help herself, her head still hazy from the knife and the kiss. 

“I should hope so, given what I do for a living.” And though she’s still blinded, she thinks she can almost see Zadkiel’s smile, as sharp as the blade in their hand. She shivers. 

“Are you ready for more?” 

“Yes.”

Something broad and blunt — the handle of the knife — touches the tip of her chin and eases her head back until her neck is arched. She holds the position even after the pressure is removed.

One beat passes, then two. Zadkiel shifts on top of her, leaning, and then there’s the quiet clink of ice being swirled in a glass. Her brow furrows beneath the blindfold, and she almost lifts her head, but then Zadkiel’s full weight is settled over her hips again and they click their tongue.

“Ah, ah, dove. You said you trusted me, didn’t you? Head back.” 

She complies without thinking, her heart picking up again. The first touch is a shock, one that she reels back from with a gasp. 

The knife is removed just as abruptly, and she knows her skin isn’t so much as pricked, but it  _ burns _ where the blade had made contact.

“What—” she tries, but then there are fingers at the nape of her neck, in her hair, holding her head in position. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Zadkiel croons, nudging their nose against her cheek affectionately, their grip on her hair firm but not so much that it hurt. The actions are so at odds with each other but so very  _ Zadkiel _ that Anthea is surprised she’s managed to hold herself together this long. “Do you want to stop?”

She clenches her fingers tightly around the ropes in hopes of hiding the tremor that runs through her.

“No,” she says, and it’s stronger this time. The burning sensation on her throat has faded into a chill, and she understands the presence of the ice water now. “I know the word. It was just a surprise.” 

She feels Zadkiel smile, that sharp, lovely smile.

“Do I need to hold you like this?” The fingers in her hair rub meaningfully at her nape, and as much as she loves the touch, loves the closeness of them, she knows that they mean the question only in the literal sense. 

They wouldn’t hold her if she could control herself. This was as much a test of her command over her own reactions as it was a test of Zadkiel’s skill and reflexes. 

“No.”

The hand slips out of her hair and the absence of the touch and of Zadkiel’s warmth leaves her wanting, but she tips her head back again and steels herself.

She hears the knife dip back into the ice water, and then it’s gliding down the side of her throat again. She clenches her jaw against the bite of the chilled metal, her nails carving crescent moons into her palms, but manages to remain perfectly still. 

She can’t tell if Zadkiel has grabbed a different knife or if it’s just the temperature of the blade that makes it seem so much sharper than before. Her neck is wet and she feels beads of something slides down her skin and pool in her hair below her.

But she can’t tell if Zadkiel has really drawn blood or if it’s just the water on the knife, and she’s hardly going to try to speak while there’s a knife against her throat. The iciness of it burns her, chills her, and numbs her all at once. Her heart pounds unevenly as they graze the other side and she hears her teeth grind over one another with the effort it takes to repress a full bodied shiver.

The blade skims back towards the center, then pauses in the hollow at the base. She barely breathes as Zadkiel takes the point all the way up the middle, to just under her chin. More of the liquid rolls off of her, but Anthea doesn’t have the time to linger on it before they place the blade horizontally across the center of her throat and make a quick, sharp slicing motion.

For one long, agonizing second, she’s paralyzed. 

Then the blade is gone, and Zadkiel’s tongue is catching the droplets on her skin — somewhere in the back of her mind she registers  _ water, not blood _ — and Anthea gasps for air and the shudder that goes through her is so violent she shakes the both of them. 

She wants to be mad. She wants to be furious, but Zadkiel is laughing into her neck and their tongue is doing wicked, wondrous things to her and once that bone-deep, paralyzing fear ebbs away she realizes that she  _ liked _ it. 

The fear and the thrill heightens every sensation. Zadkiel’s body is too warm pressed completely against her from hips to chest, their tongue is burning against her  _ burnedchillednumbed _ skin and she never, ever wants them to stop.

When she finds her voice she moans, squirming against the ropes, arching up into them as much as she’s able. 

“I hardly think – that – was –  _ necessary _ ,” she manages to get out, even as she’s tilting her head for them, an invitation and a plea all at once. 

“Oh, but it was,” Zadkiel says, in that infuriating, self-assured tone of voice, “because look how you’re reacting to me. I’ve barely touched you, little succubus, and you’re already writhing.”

They nip at her throat with sharp teeth, then pull back again as Anthea huffs and settles back into the sheets, embarrassed that they were right. Zadkiel’s hand finds her face, their thumb sweeping over the flush on her cheek.

“What a lovely color on you,” they murmur, half teasing and half admiring. Their hand lingers for only a moment, and then it’s gone and the knife is back. “Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”

“Oh?” She can’t help herself. “Because pretending to slit my throat wasn’t fun enough for you?” 

“Don’t be mad, dove. I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.” The blade traces a collarbone and Anthea shivers. Their voice hasn’t changed but she thinks there’s something different about the way they skim her skin, something reverent.

Instead of continuing down her chest, Zadkiel follows the line of her arm. The knife eases the strap of her lingerie over her shoulder, and then with barely any pressure at all the thin fabric snaps in two. The point knocks the cut straps away and continues down, tracing the dip of her elbow and circling her wrist where the rope bites into her skin and dipping between her fingers. 

Anthea flexes her hand, the caress of the knife tickling against the sensitive skin, and Zadkiel taps the blunt side against her palm. She opens her hand back up, and they trace the lines already carved into the flesh.

Goosebumps erupt along her arm and Zadkiel pauses. 

“ _ Well _ ,” they say, then run the knife back up the same path until it crosses to the other one, where they mimic their steps until she gets goosebumps there, too. “Ticklish, are we?” 

There’s a breathless quality to their voice that matches how Anthea feels. She swallows hard as the point drags against the center of her chest, until it snags in the thin material that really doesn’t do much to cover her breasts. 

She can hear Zadkiel breathing now, slightly uneven like her heart slamming against her ribs in anticipation. They don’t make a cut in the fabric yet, opting instead to drag the blade in a wide, lazy circle around one of her breasts. Her back curves in again as they trace the knife in a tightening spiral, until the cool metal grazes her nipple through the gauze and lace. 

She moans, grappling for something to hold on to. Zadkiel flips the knife so that the blunt side is pressing against her instead, teasing the dark bud into a peak with the edge. Even though the chill from the ice water has faded, the blade suddenly feels too cold against her skin, flushed through with warmth from their teasing. 

Zadkiel is oddly silent as they give the same treatment to her other breast, until the material of her lingerie, light and airy as it is, suddenly feels too hot and oppressive under their careful ministrations. 

As if they know exactly what she’s thinking, Zadkiel brings the knife to top of the bra, slipping it beneath the embroidered hem. She gasps at the coolness of the blade, where the flat of it rests against her sternum for only a moment before they’re using it to cut a clean line down the center of the fabric. They flick the ruined sides apart with the tip.

It’s strange and intimate, laying pinned, blindfolded, and exposed beneath them. She thinks she can imagine how they’re looking at her, but this time it’s  _ different _ because Zadkiel has never gotten so worked up over so little foreplay and she wants to  _ see _ her effect on them. 

She settles for the absolute stillness that follows, for the slight hitch in their breathing, and for the fact that when they touch her next, it’s with their fingers, containing the barest hint of a tremble. But it’s enough for her to notice the flutter of them over her skin, and enough that the knife is useless until they can regain that miniscule slip of control.

One of Zadkiel’s fingers follow the same tightening path over her breast, and Anthea lets herself relax into the familiarity of warm skin instead of cool steel. She arches into their hand to feel more, but they avoid the dusky peak this time, reversing their path in widening circles. 

Anthea huffs, lips parting to complain, but the words are lost on a moan when Zadkiel’s tongue lashes her other nipple, the teasing hand stilling to cup her breast and sweep their thumb over the neglected bud. Silky tendrils of hair tickle her ribs, slip over her stomach, and she strains against the ropes, arching into the heat of their mouth with a breathless laugh. 

It cuts off abruptly as Zadkiel pulls her nipple between their too sharp teeth, dragging the bud through them carefully before releasing her. Anthea shivers, her hands clenching and unclenching in their bonds, aching to thread her fingers through Zadkiel’s hair and push them down her body to exactly where she wants them, but Zadkiel is already leaning back, the absence of the heat of their body and the caress of their hair leaving her wanting. 

She feels Zadkiel’s weight shift again, and gasps when the cool point of the knife drags over the wet tip, goosebumps erupting along her skin again. 

“Mm,” Zadkiel hums approvingly, the first sound they’ve made in what feels like ages, skimming the edge over the raised flesh. “I love these.” Their voice drops to a husky whisper, and Anthea has to remind herself to stay still again, even as more heat sweeps through her and pools between her legs. 

She can’t remember the last time she was so aroused over so little. 

This time when she hears the ice swirling in the glass, she knows what to expect, though that doesn’t dull the shock that pulls her body taut when the icy blade begins to trace the rib, just below her breast. Her breath comes shallowly in the wake of this slow torture, Zadkiel’s hand moving at an agonizing pace until they reach the center of her chest, and then dropping to the next one and beginning the process all over again.

It’s harder to bear this time, and she can’t help the quiver of her stomach as her body tries to recoil against the knife. She keeps her back from curving, from physically trying to squirm away, only through sheer force of will.

She clenches her teeth, her nails cutting crescents into her palms. Two more, and Anthea exhales shakily in relief, but Zadkiel gives her only a moment to recover before repeating the ministrations on her other side. 

There’s a curse caught in her throat, a filthy word that she bites her tongue against, gritting her teeth until she hears the way they grind against each other, and then it’s over. All the tension floods out of her body at once in a violent shudder, and she thinks Zadkiel is laughing, though in the moment it sounds far away. 

As she recovers, Zadkiel drags the tip lazily between her breasts, all the way down her stomach to her navel. They circle it slowly, thoughtfully, and Anthea can feel their eyes on her, watching her every movement. 

“I probably won’t use the ice anymore,” they finally say, though they sound distracted, most likely by the path the knife traces around her belly button, careful not to catch against her piercing. Her stomach quivers again. She isn’t sure if she imagines the way their breath hitches.

“Probably?” she ventures, to distract from how her own body is betraying her by reacting so readily to them.

“I make no promises.” They’re smiling again, she can hear it in their voice, then the knife is gone and so is Zadkiel’s weight over her hips. She stills at the abruptness of it, straining to find them without the use of her eyes. And then—

They settle between her spread legs, hands sinking the mattress beside her as they dip their head to follow the path of the knife, peppering her chilled skin with hot, open kisses. 

She lets her head fall back, arching up to meet the heated path their mouth is carving down her torso. They hum against her stomach and trace the knife’s path around her belly button with their tongue, and Anthea sighs her own approval, wishing again for the use of her hands. 

Zadkiel slips a hand beneath her, pressing against the small of her back to arch her up for them when they dip their tongue into her navel, flicking against her piercing tauntingly. Their fingers catch on her dermals, and they sigh wistfully into her skin. 

“One day I’ll have you like this on your stomach,” they murmur against her, fingering the two small piercings set into her back, and the promise alone is enough to send another spark of heat through her. 

“A far off dream, considering we’ve been here for an eternity,” Anthea can’t help but tease, grateful that her voice remains steady. Zadkiel laughs, pressing one more kiss over her navel and then pulling back once more.

“Patience is a virtue, dove.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any of those left.”

“Oh,  _ I _ don’t, but I wasn’t referring to myself.” Anthea opens her mouth to reply, but the caress of the knife along the waistband of her flimsy lace panties sends every other thought out the window. Zadkiel settles between her knees, their free hand curling around her thigh. They draw the tip over the line of her hipbone, and then sweep down to follow the V of her underwear. 

Anthea inhales sharply, tensing, and the hand on her thigh moves up to press over her stomach. 

“Relax,” they murmur, retracing their path to repeat the process on the other side. Anthea tries, but it’s much easier said than done when she is acutely aware of the cool, deadly edge of the blade against the warmest, most sensitive part of her body. She exhales slowly, forcing the tension out with the breath, and Zadkiel makes a low sound of approval in the back of their throat. 

They follow the line of her panties back up and then down her thigh. The blade slips around to the back of her knee, where it glides over the artery. Anthea’s toes curl, both at the sensation and the reoccurring knowledge that one slip could lead to her bleeding all over the bed. 

As if they know exactly what she’s thinking, they pause, lingering at the fragile skin there, pressing the blade a little harder against the spot her blood pulses until she can hear only the rush of it in her ears. She doesn’t know what it is about this game they’re playing that steals all reasonable thought, that whispers all the horrible ways they could hurt her when she knows that they are both too skilled with the blade and that they had never given her reason to believe they wanted to, but she supposes the temporary suspension of belief is part of the thrill. 

Zadkiel finally continues the trail down her calf, circling her ankle, and then skims the knife up the inside of her leg. The point of the blade ghosts over her center — she doesn’t feel the tip itself but she feels how it snags on the lace as it passes over it — until it settles on against her other thigh. They go through the motions again, stilling at the back of her knee, pressing the blade dangerously against the thin flesh, before continuing down and then back up. 

Anthea feels her anticipation pooling low in her belly, building with the thought that they were almost done with this play and that finally they would relieve some of the ache that it has left her with. Her entire body feels hot and cold, overstimulated and neglected at once. She digs her heels into the bed, arching, but the hand on her stomach pushes her back down. 

Zadkiel sounds amused when they say, “we’re not done just yet.” Anthea bites back a groan, swallowing the plea that rises on her tongue. She wants another taste of them. She wants them to taste her. She wants them to unbind her. She wants to roll them beneath her and show them what it is to ache.  _ She wants, she wants, she wants,  _ more intensely than she has ever wanted before, and she isn’t quite sure whether she should be upset or impressed that they’ve managed to unravel the restraint it’s taken her years to build with one measly knife and their silken words and hungry lips.

The tip of the knife slips under the elastic holding her panties together at her hip, though Zadkiel makes no move to shred it. Instead, they lean forward, kissing the spot, and then continue down, staying true to the pattern they’ve set of following the knife’s path with their lips afterwards. Their tongue dips into the bend of their knee and Anthea presses her heels more firmly into the mattress, struggling not to jerk. She feels Zadkiel smile against her skin and tips her head back, cursing them in every one of their names she knows. 

The ascent up her other leg makes her quiver when they slow down, slipping their hand beneath her calf and taking the time to lavish kisses on her skin. She tries to keep her breathing even this time, but the effort is wasted the higher they get, and her shallow breaths are too loud to her own ears. 

Zadkiel skims their nose along the crease of her thigh, and Anthea shivers, fingers and toes curling again. She sighs, their name on the tip of her tongue nearly a prayer, until they lean back again. Anthea bites her tongue before the three syllables can escape, her chest heaving. 

They don’t laugh this time, and she takes that as a sign that they’re just as affected by this as she is. It helps her regain her grip on her composure, and she breathes in deeply, then lets go of her frustration. 

“Stay very, very still.”

The weight in their voice gives her pause, and her spine pricks with that familiar, illogical fear, but she obeys, hardly breathing. 

Zadkiel nudges her legs even wider, placing a hand over her stomach again. 

“Don’t move,” they whisper, and then she feels the flat of the blade over the thin lace that covers her center.

“ _ Oh, _ ” she says, and she can’t hide how her voice trembles now. Whether it’s a product of her fear, or her arousal, or both, she can’t say for certain. 

Zadkiel grabs the elastic waistband, pulling the lace taut over her, and carefully traces the outline of her folds through the material with the tip. She keens quietly, aching with the effort to remain still, to not even let the quiver to her limbs manifest should they cause Zadkiel to slip.

This is a torture more acute than anything else they’ve put her through so far, and Anthea can barely remind herself to breathe let alone remember the word they’d agreed upon beforehand that would put a stop to everything at once. She isn’t even sure she wants to use it, only that they’re currently balancing on a precipice and that the word had been a safety net that’s no longer there to catch her if she falls. 

They draw the blade lightly over each lip and then up further. They pause, putting pressure on her stomach, and lightly press the tip to her clit. Even with the warning and their hand weighing her down, Anthea jolts, and Zadkiel deftly pulls the knife away before it can do any harm.

The absence of the blade drains all the tension from her again, her breath leaving her all at once, and she can’t quite hide the quiver in her limbs anymore. 

Zadkiel surges forward, catching her lips in a heated, urgent kiss. Anthea barely registers the snap of the elastic holding her underwear together, not with their tongue in her mouth again, the heady taste of them making her head spin. 

“Fuck,” they murmur against her lips, and Anthea gasps at the feel of their fingers slipping beneath the ruined remains of the lace, tracing her folds with significantly less caution now, feeling how warm and slick she is for them after all their play. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

Anthea cants her hips up, rocking into their hand, and Zadkiel presses a thumb over her clit, leaving her lips to trail kisses over her jaw and down her throat so they can hear how she moans for them. 

They circle her entrance with one finger, and Anthea’s hips sway with it, urging them inside of her. Zadkiel complies, sinking it in to the knuckle, groaning at the way she flutters around it. She hums her approval between uneven breaths, straining against the ropes, the new friction delicious but not nearly enough. 

And then it’s gone, Zadkiel’s hand and mouth leaving her entirely, and Anthea is only vaguely aware that the whine ringing in her ears is her own. 

Her fingers flex, wanting to reach out and search for them, but she hardly has time to contemplate where they went before she feels their tongue, featherlight against her slit, the slow lick ending in a flick to her clit. She arches, moaning loudly, spreading her own legs as far as she’s able to accommodate their body between them. Their hair tickles her thighs and her hands clench around air, wanting desperately to bury themselves in the long, soft locks. 

Zadkiel leans in, tasting her again, so lightly Anthea almost believes she’s imagining the touch until the flick to her clit, more insistent this time. She raises her hips, searching for their mouth, and Zadkiel humors her. This time their tongue is solid and firm, dipping into her entrance, wiggling between her folds, running circles around her clit. 

Anthea’s mind goes blissfully blank. The only thing she’s aware of is Zadkiel’s head between her thighs, and the press of one, two fingers into her, picking up a steady, curling rhythm that has her writhing.

She tries meeting all their thrusts, bound as she is, but the hand on her stomach stills her so they can close lips and teeth and tongue around her clit. Stars burst behind her eyelids, or maybe against the impenetrable fabric of the blindfold — she doesn’t know if her eyes are open and she can’t bring herself to care. All the knows is the phantom caress of the knife that lingers on her burning skin and Zadkiel’s mouth and fingers and  _ oh, _ that mouth, with a smile as sharp as the blade, and those fingers that had wielded it so skillfully against her skin, and Anthea is lost. 

She is utterly lost in them, and the last few hours seem like a blur now, all condensed into this moment when she feels herself shattering and reforming and shattering again. 

When Zadkiel finally lifts their head from between her trembling thighs — the glide of their hair over her skin makes her shudder — and pulls their fingers from her, Anthea whines again, though she’s not sure why, given how boneless and satisfied she feels. 

Zadkiel laughs, and she thinks she hears them mutter something about a temptress, placing sporadic kisses on her thighs, stomach, chest, as they climb her body once more. They kiss her lips, and she tastes herself on them before they move on, reaching above her to cut through the ropes. 

Anthea’s arms tingle with their release, falling to the bed over her head, and Zadkiel grabs one, pulling it back down and rubbing the feeling back into it with one hand while the other reaches behind her head, deftly undoing the blindfold’s knot. 

She hums as the tingling, numb sensation in her arm fades, and rolls her shoulder where it’s sore. Zadkiel pulls the blindfold off and reaches for her other arm, grinning as she blinks away the light.

They slip back down her body to afford the same treatment to her legs, and Anthea moans quietly in approval. She hasn’t felt an ache like this, hasn’t felt this kind of bone deep contentment in a long time. Judging by the small, pleased smirk tugging at Zadkiel’s lips, she’s making herself much too obvious, though at the moment she doesn’t have the will nor the energy to care.

Zadkiel kisses the crease in her knee again, meeting her eyes over the bend of her leg, and Anthea can’t help but smile back. She would let Zadkiel be content in this little victory for now, but she would get them back for this.

After all, Zadkiel wasn’t the only one who could have people begging for mercy.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
